


oh what a tangled web we weave

by Fumm95



Series: Fire and Shadow (Shadowgast) [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: And I still love him, Betrayal, Consequences, Gen, I have a lot of feelings about Essek Thelyss, Lies, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Spoilers for Episode 97
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: “Oh, what a tangled web we weave/When first we practise to deceive!” —Sir Walter Scott, “Marmion”In which Essek lies, confirms friendships, and then fails miserably at lying to the people he has grown to care about.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Series: Fire and Shadow (Shadowgast) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366066
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	oh what a tangled web we weave

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this since I first watched episode 97, and I only finally finished it now, disaster that I am. BUT! I have a lot of feelings about Essek Thelyss and how his relationship with the M9 have changed him so here we are.
> 
> All dialogue was taken directly from the episode. Anything you don't recognize is pretty much my speculation. :P

It is a strange thing, friendship.

If he is to be perfectly honest with himself—and he must, to somebody at least, he cannot remember the last time he has felt such a sense of belonging. It is a truly ironic sentiment considering his original intention for being in close proximity to them, for understanding the individuals who brought one of the stolen beacons back to the Dynasty, but for all of his status and time spent in Rosohna, this ragtag group, this mismatched band of adventurers whom he has known for only a short few months, is the first in a long while to reach out to him, personally rather professionally. To be interested in _him_ , Essek, rather than the Shadowhand, the young prodigy of Den Thelyss. It is, for lack of a better word, refreshing.

And so, he finds himself sitting in the drawing room of the house that his den purchased for the Mighty Nein on his recommendation, a small fey familiar in the form of a feline draped across his lap as he fields what seems like an endless stream of questions.

As he catches himself chuckling, genuine and in good humor, over the good-natured banter thrown between this tight-knit group of friends, drawn together through need and adversity, he allows himself to slowly, _slowly_ , let his guard down. To elaborate on the concept of consecution and other aspects of Kryn culture. To tell them small hints of himself, to explain why he has even appeared on their doorstep like this. To give them a glimpse of his life and goals, his _ambitions_ , and to ask theirs in return.

Of course it is Caleb, quick-minded Caleb with his sharp memory and haunted eyes carrying a lifetime’s worth of pain, who asks what the worst thing the tiefling has ever done is, following her… discussion on the Traveler. And of course the other human, Beauregard, blunt and direct and keen-eyed but somehow all the more likeable for it, turns the question on him.

He should have been expecting it. If he were being truly cautious, he would never have come in the first place, risking everything he has worked towards, putting it all on the line. He knows this, and perhaps that is what draws the chuckle from his chest as he stalls, wracking his memory.

Had he been asked only a few short months earlier, his answer would have been much easier but now… Now, he fights the perhaps dangerous and certainly foolish temptation to speak his newfound truth, to lay his crimes at their feet. Except… It is already too far in motion now to risk being found out, to risk putting others, putting _them_ , in danger.

Instead, he sighs, casting his eyes upward, and surrounds himself in the memory of his past self, in the memory of finding out what happened to his father. It is… strangely difficult, speaking of something he tries not to think of, and feeling the mood of the room shift, he offers a downplay with a nonchalance he is not entirely sure he feels. And thankfully, in part due to that incorrigibly cheerful tiefling, it is enough to inspire a topic change, without them prying too far into the matter.

After all, navigating the conversation, giving them just enough information to keep his plans—and by extension, them all—safe, already takes more effort than he cares to admit. Perhaps it is the wine, but even cautious as he is, when discussing the war and the importance, the desire, of regaining peace between the two nations, he finds himself telling bits of the truth, hinting at secret research and the safety of peace, and despite trying to avoid those bright blue eyes, knowing deep down that to be seen is to chance being understood, they pull him in, too, brimming with intelligence and curiosity and a spark of something he dare not try to identify. Not like this. Not now.

Whether he fears or craves discovery more, he cannot be certain.

He is taken aback by how thankful he is when the conversation turns to talk of friendship and camaraderie; somehow even discussing his own perpetual solitude is more comfortable than attempting to navigate the perilous waters of careful half-truths and dangerous lies in which he dwells. Then again, considering the odd warmth that seems to fill his chest when he glances among them, feeling their contentment with each other’s and oddly enough, from what he can tell, his own presence, perhaps that is not as surprising as it could be.

That, along with the alcohol, must be what compels him to join them by the hot tub they have constructed, listening to their teasing and, in some cases, more serious conversation. In fact, it is with almost reluctance that he remembers the time and the many tasks requiring his supervision before the peace summit, such as it is. Reluctance and a faint twinge of something that most resembles…

Well, it is already too late for that.

He is not entirely surprised when Caleb asks to see his home immediately, nor can he quite restrain his excitement; of everybody he has met in his life, this human is one of the few who shares his hunger, his respect and enthusiasm, for knowledge. And those eyes, world-weary with more suffering than most men at least double his age, sparkle with that familiar spark of scientific curiosity, of discovery and the promise of knowledge, that he too craves.

It is dangerous, how he feels, the kinship and understanding in his veins threatening to pull him from his path. For a long, precarious, second, he is almost disappointed when Beauregard elects to tag along.

He feels their eyes on him as well as their surroundings as he guides them down the familiar path to his abode and though none of them speak, it is a comfortable, warm peace, so unlike the thick, heavy weight of the past month, undisturbed in his home. It is not until the familiar three towers come into view that he interrupts the silence, indicating his home. Once again, he is not entirely surprised when the conversation turns once more towards the esoteric in the way that discussion between two minds matched in understanding and interests always does.

For a moment, he contemplates inviting his student, his friend, in, but the third in their party shifts, something resembling impatience in her stance, and he shakes himself as Caleb snaps his attention back to her, letting him wrap up the conversation with promises of breakfast and continuing their discussion.

When he bids the two good night, letting the gate close with a groan of iron, it is with a strange, faint tinge of emotion in his chest that he cannot quite bring himself to name.

* * *

In retrospect, perhaps he should have been expecting it. Nothing about the Mighty Nein has been predictable, not since that day, months ago, when he first met them, standing before the Bright Queen, accused of crimes against the Dynasty, and bearing one of the beacons he had given to the Empire. No, they have always defied his expectations, breaking boundaries set upon them, creating outliers in the models he has tried to mentally build. In that sense, this is nothing new.

Except it is one thing to know this fact and another entirely to experience it when he least expects it. Not even the brief announcement of visitors is enough to prepare him for their arrival.

On the deck of the _Wind of Eons_ , he freezes, recognizing the voices before he sees them. The Martinet hardly appears to react, his face its usual mask of inscrutable serenity as he turns to them with a polite greeting, introducing his alter ego alongside their third companion with calm dignity.

His spellwork is as impeccable as it always is and he knows this, yet the pairs of eyes, curious and earnest, sharp and cautious, that look him over seem to both charm him and cut straight through the illusion.

He does not need Da’leth’s slight shift in position to know that his attempt to excuse himself is a poor showing. Nor, he suspects, was his subconscious exclamation of surprise entirely unnoticed; he knows them all well enough now to know that Caduceus, though not as learned in many respects, has a keen eye, as does his… protege. It is, however, enough to earn him a reprieve.

Or, at least, it would have been if not for the damnably personable Uludan.

The tiefling is her usual cheerful self, chattering about her mother with all the enthusiasm of a friend, which, he supposes, she is, though not in the way she suspects. And behind her, those bright, intelligent eyes hooded with caution…

He listens to the conversation with one ear, doing his best to avoid meeting that gaze that, he senses, might be able to cut him to his core. His distraction is such that he almost misses the Martinet’s request for another conversation, no doubt the cause for the request in the first place, but he cannot help but be thankful at the direction the conversation turns and the abrupt manner in which it encourages the group to leave.

Of course, Caleb, clever, insightful Caleb, requests to see the beacon before they depart, insists upon it and refuses to delay until after they have set sail. The man has caution, has suspicion, in his veins, particularly where the Cerberus Assembly is involved, and in spite of himself, he glances from him to the archmage, curious and nervous in equal measure.

In some ways, it is a blessing that Da’leth has requested a private conversation; he is too tense, too ill-at-ease, to leave the boat at the same time as the group, and he is certain that, if he attempts any more conversation with his friends, the entire ruse will fall apart around him.

Breathing an audible sigh of relief, he follows the Martinet out of the sun and into the depths of the ship.

He is not surprised that his… reluctant ally notices his discomfort; he has long since been aware of the fact that Ludinus Da’leth is a highly intelligent man, that he must be to have kept his position in the Cerberus Assembly for so long, _and_ he doubts that such levels of intelligence is strictly necessary, given his current state. The fact that Lord Uludan does not appear to notice is far more a statement on the perception of the latter than any on the former.

Then again, if he is to be perfectly honest, he cannot blame the Martinet for his displeasure and surprise; he cannot even explain it to himself. That he, the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen, who has always prided himself on his impartiality, his indifference, who has remained impassive countless times when facing his empress and his people, has dealt with untruths and subterfuge for so long… That he could be affected by the mere presence of his friends. That he has suddenly found that he cannot meet their eyes like this, that he struggles to lie to the ones who have come to trust him. He can hardly fathom it himself.

But to do anything other than continue might put everything he has risked, everything that he has worked towards, in jeopardy. To back out now, to reveal his hand or even just lose his concentration, let his guard down, might result in the truce, the attempt at peace, falling apart, might bring upon all of Wildemount more unnecessary death and suffering, more than he has always wrought.

Might put his friends’ lives in jeopardy, those stubborn, well-meaning, earnest friends of his, allied to neither dynasty nor empire but instead wholly devoted to the well-being of the general populace.

The antithesis to him.

If his act, his falsehoods and lies, will protect that, will protect _them_ , then it is all worth his while in the end. He nods, squaring his shoulders, and lets the form of Lord Dezran Thane settle once more over him.

Much to his chagrin, his will is tested almost immediately; the group is still lingering on the docks when he emerges once more. Barely daring to meet their gaze, he straightens, forcing a smile, and offers a greeting. Thankfully, they appear to have little interest in continued conversation and he relaxes, just a fraction.

“It is a pleasure meeting you.”

In spite of himself, his eyes flicker to Caleb, to the thin face and the keen eyes that seem to hold something inscrutable in their depths, and he clears his throat, bowing his head again to hide any possible changes in his expression.

“You as well,” he returns, short and to the point… and all, he suspects, he can manage at this point.

Before they can respond once more, he hurries away, a quick enough speed that any attempts at polite conversation would be impossible, and returns to his sanctuary, of a sort, for when he has been forced to stay in Nicodranas for an extended time.

With the Mighty Nein now intending to attend the party in under two days’ time, he will need as much time as he can to regain his equilibrium before he can contemplate interacting with them once more.

* * *

He has never been a fan of parties. Perhaps it is a result of his experience in Rosohna, of that feeling of isolation which permeated much of his past decades, focused as he has always been on his studies and research, on dunamancy and those things that much of the rest of the dynasty takes for granted. Or perhaps it is simply a part of who he is, more comfortable alone than in crowds, feigning enjoyment at interacting with those putting on a mask, in some cases literally, for the sake of the audience or their own gains.

Then again, in this particular case, that last complaint may only be an exercise in hypocrisy.

Still, regardless of the reason, the fact remains, and he finds it crossing his mind increasingly often the longer his charade continues. His disguise as one of the minor lords of Nicodranas, allowing him more access than an average citizen would have without compromising overly on recognition, does have the added caveat of necessitating his attendance at such functions. And while they can be tolerated in the best of times, the current situation was far from that. With the meeting between the Empire and the Dynasty looming overhead and the… inconvenient presence of his friends, he has too much on his mind to so much as even attempt to relax.

Judging from the way he remains within polite earshot at all times, it is a fact that the Martinet once again does not fail to notice.

Much to his relief, the commotion on their arrival is such that he cannot remain oblivious to it; even if Lord Robert Sharpe, with all of his unnecessarily… unsavory charm, had not drawn the gaze of the entire courtyard, it seemed, with his unwelcome attentions, the reputation of his friends has proceeded them and the Mighty Nein are whispered about on more than a few pairs of lips, particularly when arriving accompanied by the famed Ruby of the Sea.

He vaguely recalls that they had spoken of her before, during that too-long conversation with Uludan, and it is clear that Jester, whatever her name might imply, spoke true that her mother held some sway and fame over the elite of Nicodranas.

In spite of that, he finds his attention drawn back to the newly arrived group, and not solely due to the spectacle that Jester and Lord Sharpe have succeeded in creating. It is almost impressive, how swiftly and effectively she deals with the problem, and he finds himself hiding a chuckle of his own. As far as he is aware, Lord Sharpe will not be missed by any at the party, and no doubt the women will be more thankful than disappointed at his predicament. Any other day, any other function with less at stake, and he might have even found it making his unwilling attendance worth his while.

However, his amusement, thankfully, does not serve to distract him from his current mission, keeping an eye on the location of his friends to remain well out of conversation, Jester’s enthusiastic greeting notwithstanding. At least certain members among them have proven themselves to be gregarious even to those they have only just met, while others sharp enough to, if not deduce the truth, at least detect something suspicious about his behavior. And, if he is to be perfectly honest with himself, the task is made somewhat easier by the fact that his gaze is drawn back to them time and again.

When he first met them, months earlier in Rosohna, they had appeared, to put it politely, to have been run ragged, clothing dirty and ripped with the remnants of travel and battle. Then, it was their impact, their actions, that had caught the eye of the Bright Queen, far more than anything they might have donned. Even in more recent times, now established and accepted, or at least tolerated, within the dynasty and given all of the benefits that entails, they are often on the move, dressed for comfort and ease of movement far more than presentation, and it is… different to see them adorned so formally for the occasion.

From a safe distance, he glances over the dresses and suits, practiced eye catching the telltale signs of expertly tailored attire, no doubt under the guidance of Jester, given her mother’s own background. He lingers on some more than others: Fjord, his captain’s suit complete with a comically large hat, catches the attention, and amusement, of more than a few partygoers, while Beauregard appears far more collected and, for lack of a better word, approachable, than he has ever seen before, though considering her training, he doubts that it would be any safer for him to approach her now. And then there is Caleb…

He pauses, looking over his protege with a second, slower scan. The cut is modest, not entirely unlike most formal attire from both the dynasty and the empire, but carefully designed and selected to flatter his build, drawing attention to his slender frame. Silver embroidery offers character and intricacy, while the red lining complements the dark tone of the suit, emphasizing his fair skin and the fiery copper of his hair. All in all, the effect is masterful, simple but elegant, and puts the more ostentatious ensembles to shame.

Perhaps it is the prolonged distraction that causes his guard to drop, or perhaps it is his concern at the conversation between the Martinet and his… friend in question, but Jester approaches entirely unnoticed, and he has to actively prevent himself from jumping.

His performance, he knows, is atrocious. It is a strange thing, considering his experience dealing with deceit and his typical dispassionate attitude, but it seems the Mighty Nein has managed to tear down his walls, or at least find a chink in his armor, one that he is unable to repair quickly enough, leaving him exposed, vulnerable, in the face of his tiefling friend’s irrepressible and mostly one-sided conversation.

Though it is almost a blessing, it takes every ounce of will in his body to hold himself still as the Ruby of the Sea begins her performance, instead plotting scenarios in his head. It will no doubt arouse further suspicion, but he will have to try harder to excuse himself afterwards; he is not certain he can even attempt to lie to those earnest eyes any longer.

* * *

He realizes the moment he takes another sip of his drink that something is wrong.

In spite of her mother’s performance, Jester still chatters brightly beside him, voice only marginally lower to accommodate the singing, and he struggles to reply, to force some semblance of normalcy back into the conversation, into himself, but it is too late. He feels as his body freezes, unable to move, or even to talk, and mentally swears as he attempts to speak to no avail.

Whatever is going on, his conversational partner clearly was not expecting it either; she panics, drawing more attention to them, and he can almost feel his plot coming to an end, unsuccessful despite the multitude of lives it has taken, as eyes turn in his direction. Except she is also redirecting their attention back to the performance, as though she also has no desire to request aid, and…

 _Shit_.

She does not seem to be surprised when she tugs him away without too much difficulty and even frozen as he is, he still sees more members of the Nein following suit, and the truth of the situation sinks in.

 _They know_.

Their conversation, hastily corrected at best, though he cannot blame them considering his own disastrous act moments earlier, only serves to confirm his suspicions. For once in this long night, however, it seems that the gods are on his side as his muscles finally relax, back under his control, and he straightens, meeting their gaze for one brief moment.

“I have to go.” His words are quiet, abrupt, as he pulls out of her grasp, but another voice cuts in, harsh and steely, the typically soft Zemnian accent now forceful, commanding, and in spite of himself, he freezes.

“I don’t think so.”

His eyes dart to Caleb’s, hard with determination, and he cannot seem to move as the pale hands close around his wrists, as he feels as the clasp of cold metal against his skin. He stumbles, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him, but frantic adrenaline and sheer desperation keep him upright. He has to escape. Before it all falls into pieces, before everything that has been sacrificed goes to waste, he has to…

Decades of experience has him speaking the incantation before he is fully aware of his own actions and he blinks, casting his gaze around. There had to be some spot…

 _There_.

He focuses on the point outside the gates, as far from the group as he can manage. An instant later, he vanished, reappearing off the manor’s grounds unshackled and, more importantly, out of reach. He glances around, searching for the best path—

“ _Stop_.”

The word is calm, almost exasperated in tone, but despite its mild nature, somehow impossible to ignore. Once again, he finds himself freezing, staring at the group, his heart beating a frantic staccato in his chest. Their conversation with the guards is quick, too quick, the pair managing to convince the sentries that they mean no harm, and they approach before he can shake himself, the tall, calm firbolg and his fiery student leading the way to where he stands, still motionless to the light admonishment.

“You really do want to talk to us. I think it’s really important. You do.”

He is not surprised when Caduceus speaks first, nor, he has to admit, is he surprised that they are the two who reach him first, staring him down. His previous encounters with them, his _friendship_ with them, have done plenty to show him that they are two of the ones he would have expected to discover the truth, or at least part of it. And behind them, Yasha stands, her arms crossed over her chest, with Jester beside her and no doubt Nott somewhere equally nearby.

Still, for a moment, he contemplates trying yet again to escape, once he has full command of his faculties once more. He has plenty of spells in his arsenal, ways to shift location or move about unseen and surely they cannot possibly stop his every attempt, but… But as he looks at them, circling about him with serious, determined expressions, he finds himself doubting that even his prodigal abilities might save him from the perseverance of this group, even if his body, his subconscious, does not disobey him once more.

It is little surprise now that they, with Caleb’s clever thinking, Jester’s disarming charm, Nott’s quick movements, and Caduceus’ steadying force, have achieved what they have in spite of what might be considered insurmountable odds. He would be a fool to assume otherwise. He supposes he already is one, for thinking that he could have hidden anything from the only ones who have cared enough to reach out to him.

He was not wrong when he said that friendship has changed him, but in many ways, it has also made it all, this entire tangled mess of plans and plots and what was once secret betrayals, so much worse.

“A lot at stake here.” Caleb’s conversational tone cuts worse than any amount of anger, of hatred, would, and he barely resists the urge to flinch.

“A lot.”

He looks from one to the other, from sympathetic, compassionate eyes to hard, unflinching ones, and in this moment, he is not sure which are worse. Cold disdain he knows how to deal with, and dispassionate disapproval, but this… This mix of righteous anger and hurt and, underneath it all, a willingness to hear him out, to have a conversation, despite what he knows is a betrayal of the deepest kind, even if it was unwittingly put into motion years earlier, long before he ever met them.

This is new and foreign… and he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve _them_.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow, resigned sigh. “Fine, then. Show me where.”

* * *

He tells them everything.

When they first lead him to their ship, he is still contemplating ways of hiding, of manipulating, the truth. To tell them just enough that they might let him go, to ascertain just how much they know and try to keep it at that. Whether it is so they do not think the worst of him, though he rather suspects that that ship has long sailed, or to protect them from the truth and what others might do to them, he is not certain.

That intention lasts only until Caleb speaks, slow and clear after Jester’s rambling speech. “Yes, friend. What are you doing?”

The word, the reminder of what they are to him, _stings_ and before he can stop himself, he flinches, dropping his gaze to the floor.

He has imagined being found out in many ways, with many outcomes. Considering the extent of his actions, the depths of his treachery, it is not altogether an unexpected thing, after all, and he is nothing if not methodical. And yet, somehow, in all of his contingency plans, between all the plots of what to do should he be seen by a member of the Empire or preparations in case the Bright Queen were to catch wind of his betrayal, among all of the procedures for if his life and livelihood are at risk, he has not planned for this. For this motley crew that has unknowingly, determinedly, forced their way past all of his emotional defenses to ascertain the truth.

And now, all he can manage, all he can possibly tell, is the truth.

At Jester’s invitation, he moves a crate to his side, sitting on it with a heavy sigh, and tells them. He explains his ambitions, his foolhardy, selfish thought process, expanding on everything he has hinted at before. He confesses his crimes, the lies he has told them and the harm that his self-serving actions have caused, bares his soul before them, the only people who have attempted to understand him, who have even the faintest inkling of who he is.

Except even these people he has called, has believed to be, friends have been fooled by him as well; they must be, because in spite of everything, in spite of his falsehoods and treason, in spite of the countless lives that have been destroyed by his actions, they still believe that there is goodness in him.

He apologizes, because that is all he can do now, his every breath belabored and harsh in his chest, each word heavy and sharp in his throat. Each sentence he utters puts them all in more danger, and he knows it, except…

Except at the same time, as he bows his head, his gaze focused on the floor instead of the many pairs of eyes on him, there is some relief, as well. A certain amount of _comfort_ in knowing that his actions have caused him pain as well, that he can still feel it, the regret and disgust and self-loathing that he so clearly deserves. And there is nothing left for him, now that he is burning this one, final, bridge by telling them the truth, nothing left but to carry his plans forward, to ensure that all of the pain and suffering he has caused is not in vain.

In spite of his determination—or perhaps more accurately, his cowardice—to see it through, he recoils at Caleb sinking to his knees before him, at the gentle touch he has done nothing to warrant, but he also cannot fight it, not any longer. Instead, he forces himself to meet those eyes that hold far more understanding, far more sympathy, than he could ever deserve.

And despite everything, despite his own better judgment, he listens, lets those words wash over him, somehow harsh and yet impossibly gentle at the same time. “You were not born with venom in your veins,” his friend, the man who at once mirrors and is also the better version of who he is, says, and part of him longs to argue, but there is pain in those bright blue eyes, a baring of souls that he cannot turn his back on, and he holds his tongue.

The hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, is solid and firm, and the plea, the emotions behind it, seems to cut him to the bone. He can feel himself trembling as he inhales, coarse and shaky, as he swallows against the strange lump in his throat, as he forces out his reply, his denial because he knows it cannot be.

“There is no path to redemption for me,” he says, and he knows it is true, has always known it to be true, so then why does it burn on his tongue now, acrid and bitter? He knows that any attempt to rectify the wrongs he has done, that any revelation to the powers that be will end in his demise, and yet he cannot meet the earnest gaze peering up at him, can only blink hard against the painful stinging behind his eyes.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing, silence but for his own heavy breathing, and then gentle lips press against his forehead, warm and solid, full of emotion that he does not dare to identify, not now. In that moment, that one moment of shock, frozen in time, as he finds himself leaning into that unfamiliar, tender touch, he feels his will begin to crumble.

“Maybe you and I are both damned, but we can choose to do something and leave it better than it was before.”

The words are a fierce whisper, an insistence that he knows he cannot fight, but for them, for _him_ , he tries. Slowly, he draws a breath, forcing his body into some semblance of control, and lets it out in another slow, heavy sigh. “You weren’t part of the plan.” He looks up, meeting that warm gaze, willing him to understand. “And now you’re all in terrible danger for the things that you know.”

“So be it,” is the simple reply, and he closes his eyes.

They talk of plans, of what his goals going forward are, of trust and allegiances and the fate of the two nations, but in the end, it is what Nott, a goblin no longer, says that rings in his head as he makes his way back to the city proper, that he finds himself clinging to. That he has been heard by his friends. That he is not one against many.

That now, finally, he is no longer alone.


End file.
